


In The Nuclear Season

by lightningwaltz



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: F/M, Misses Clause Challenge, Pre-Relationship, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terra in an uncharted world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lirillith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirillith/gifts).



> Oh, wow, this work absolutely ran away from me in the best of ways.
> 
> Lirillith- my lovely yuletide recipient! :D- wanted a shipping fic for Locke and Terra. It was an interesting assignment to for me because I've never really considered pairings in this canon before. However, as I set down to write this, I saw a lot of things these two had in common. Also a lot of ways that I think they would have a good effect on each other. 
> 
> Also... a word about the structure of this fic and some of the choices I made. I wanted to set it in the World of Ruin for several reasons. First, I just wanted a way to isolate Terra and Locke from the rest of the cast. I wanted this to be a character study for just the two of them (especially Terra) and I thought it would be interesting to write how they would act if they thought all their friends were gone. Second, the WoR is so crucial to Terra's emotional development. She gets to be on her own at last and she gets to think at length about human relationships. Any romantic interactions she has would be stronger after Mobliz. Third, there's a silence in the canon text about what goes on in the WoR. There's a whole year that's largely unaccounted for, and I wanted to explore some uncharted territory. :)
> 
> So the fic is cut into two chapters because they cover two different (but linked) themes. The first is about her first few weeks in Mobliz and how that has an effect on her pysche. The second is about her crossing paths again with Locke and how that could have occurred in the WoR. And what might have happened. 
> 
> This fic is definitely about Terra and her awakening, I suppose. But I also definitely fell in love with this ship as I wrote this, and I hope my affection for these characters, and this canon, and this particular story comes across. I loved this prompt and I loved writing this.

_For Terra, memories of the world’s destruction are as insubstantial as a nightmare. Her first escape from Narshe was much the same, her recollections saturated with sensations rather than a meticulous chronology of events. When she recalls the mining town it's tinged with the bite of ice and the sensation of falling, falling, falling._

_But when Kefka sets everything to chaos, Terra tastes volcanic ash in her mouth, hears the groans of an airship about to split in two, and she succumbs to her esper form. She takes to the sky before she realizes what she is doing._

_As the planet morphs and changes, Terra flies._  
*

Terra wakes in a modest house, tucked into a small bed. She pulls the blankets to her chin, looks at the stained walls, and wonders if she’s fallen so far that she’s back at the beginning. Perhaps Arvis will walk in through that door, ask her for her name, send her off to the caves, and she’ll stumble through the stony, coal-black darkness. Perhaps she will meet Locke, and everything will start again.

Things are not quite that strange. She hears the sound of light footsteps, and in walks a young woman. The stranger takes one look at Terra, jumps a bit, says “good, you’ve woken up,” and then she scurries away. When she returns, she's accompanied by a young man of a similar age. A gaggle of children follow in their wake. Terra stares in a bemused sort of way, as the older pair places a tray in front of her. She sits up, thankful that she is still dressed; sometimes her clothes transform with her, sometimes they don’t. Looks like she got lucky this time.

“Ah, please don’t get up. You’re still pretty weak.” The woman smiles as she speaks, while her male counterpart stays silent. “I’m Katarin, and this is Duane. As for these kids here...”

She rattles off the identities of the children behind her, even though their names melt in Terra’s mind like snowflakes on skin. She’s more cognizant of their hollow cheeks and piercing eyes. Here and there some of them are mottled with bruises or marked with bandages. 

The tray in front of Terra has a plate with one sad piece of toast, a fried egg, a cup of apple juice.

“’We have salt and bread to share with you.’” Duane speaks for the first time, and though he’s still frowning he also peers at Terra with concern. “That means we’re welcoming you to Mobliz,” he adds in a more casual tone.

Terra looks up at him. It seems as if there’s something she must say or do here, but instead she can only cough. She drinks the juice in order to settle her throat, and thirst and hunger make it taste especially vivid. 

“If you eat our food you’re under our protection,” says a boy standing near Katarin, “And you’re also our friend. It’s custom.”

Terra splays her hands on the tray. “I’m Terra,” she says, her voice scratchy from disuse. “I offer you my protection, too. If that’s acceptable?”

She’s bewildered when some of the younger ones smile. Terra bites into the toast and tries to conjure up her next course of action. Her friends, Locke, Edgar, Sabin, Celes, all of them… They all like to get up and _do_ things. 

Do they have a king in Mobliz? An elder? A general? What had her companions said about their trips to this small city? “Can I meet with one of your… your adults?” 

At once the tentative grins die, and it’s like a strong gust blowing out a row of candles.

“That would be you,” Katarin sighs. “You’re the only adult here.”

*

Although Terra gathers that the devastation of Mobliz happened over a course of hours- days, even- it’s a tale that’s quick in the telling. The Veldt plateau rests uneasily atop numerous fault lines. It lies beside magma rich mountain ranges and torrential rivers. A chaotic shoreline is its other neighbor. When Kefka had upset the makeup of the entire planet, many of the grownups of Mobiliz were swallowed up by lava, pinioned by rock slides, and carried away by waves as tall as buildings. Some survived the initial barrage only to succumb to wounds and infection. Others ventured on to the steppes and to hunt. Weakened by Kefka’s attack, they became easy prey to wild animals. None of them walked away by choice, however. None of them willingly abandoned the children. 

Terra’s pockets are still lined with magicite and she thinks she must be seeing this town through Maduin’s eyes. Here, after all, is a town built at the edge of the world. Here were people that kept to their own ways. They bothered no one, disturbed nothing, and the cruelties of the world came for them all the same. Yes, her father and mother would understand this.

For a few days she maintains a low profile. She speaks little, eats even less, and tries to avoid adding to anyone’s burdens. They are living in what was once the mayor’s house and it’s easy enough to avoid encountering anyone. Sometimes Terra goes outside and surveys the damage. If she walks to the east, she’ll hit the ocean. The waves will rise up to her waist, and sometimes dead fish knock against her legs. When she looks west she takes in a steppe that sprawls as far as the eye can see, and it calls to her as much as it unsettles her.

Everything about her situation is primal, chaotic. Slipping into old habits is as simple as breathing. She’s not a general like Celes, but she has been a soldier. She has been a _weapon_. She is waiting for someone to come to her with orders. She’s waiting for someone to deploy her to her next duty. The Emperor using her to bring cities to heel, Banon demanding she use her magic to fuel the revolution, so many possibilities, really. Someone will ask for her. Someone will make a demand of her.

This never happens. The sun sets and rises twice before Duane seeks her out. When he does so, it’s not to send her to war. It’s to bring her into the tentative domesticity of Mobliz. 

“You look like you need something to do,” he says, and Terra follows him without question. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, because it’s what she’s heard people do in situations like this.

“It’s not a criticism.” Duane looks over his shoulder at her as they walk down the hallway. “When we found you, I thought you might be an enemy spy. But no one seems to be coming to attack, and you’ve been a decent guest.” 

“I see.” They stop by a doorway that Terra knows leads to the communal dining area. She looks down at her feet and thinks that she’s been a perpetual guest her entire life. “Yes, I don’t want to make trouble.” 

“And you give the kids something new to talk about, and distractions are always good, right?” He actually winks, and that action stirs up a distant memory. Maybe from Narshe’s caves.

The storage area is packed with jars, barrels, and crates. Cold air washes over Terra’s shins and she thinks that there must be an icebox further on. She turns in a circle, taking it all in.

“It seems like a lot, I know.” Duane holds up a gaslight lamp, and it highlights a container of peaches. “We have Katarin to thank for that. She had the two of us raiding the houses of the dead and stockpiling their food.” 

Duane is looking at Terra expectantly, and there’s a kind of tension at the end of his explanation that often indicates the speaker wants her to ask a question. Terra is never sure why people do this; can’t they just explain everything in one go? 

“What happened?” she asks, obliging him.

“It’s Katarin’s doing again. She’s always been good at math and one day she told me that we’re going to run out of food within months or even weeks, unless we convert it in various ways. It’s just gonna spoil and so on. I joked that, hey, maybe we should just fry up all the meat and have ourselves a feast, and wait to die but…” He sighs and sets his lamp on a shelf.

Even Terra can see the problem here. “She didn’t appreciate that much, I take it?”

“Hah. She started yelling that the world was probably ending but she was doing all she could to keep us alive, and the least I could was dry some meat… That reminds me, are you squeamish?” 

Terra recalls the battlefields of the past few years. She remembers the weight of a slave crown, and her magitek armor clanking across the greasy, corpse-riddled mud. 

“Not at all.” 

“Good. Okay. Let’s go preserve some food then.” And Terra stares at him for a second or two longer than is probably normal. He seems in a hurry to improve his relations with Katarin, and … and that’s significant, somehow. It’s not one person meeting the demands of another person. It’s Duane assisting Katarin, specifically. Much like how no two clouds look the same, their relationship is its own entity separate from all others.

Terra shelves those ruminations in the service of the task at hand. It’s easy enough; cut the fat from the meat (they store that elsewhere, along with the bones; there will certainly be a use for it at some point), coat it in salt, oil, and pepper, and heat it at a low temperature. Duane blathers about how it's a shame to do this to perfectly good meat, but it will last longer this way.

The air is soon filled with the scent of drying jerky, and Katarin wanders into the kitchen. Her face is cloudy, but then she takes one look at Duane’s grin and her eyes light up.

“I rushed over here because I thought you were using up our rations but-”

“Here I am being responsible? It happens.” 

On the surface it sounds like an argument, but Terra tilts her head, watches closely, and decides it might be the opposite. When Katarin stands on her tiptoes and kisses Duane, Terra makes note of that too.

“Thank you for helping out.” Katarin turns her attention to Terra now. She clasps her hands, gratitude shining from her eyes. “Sorry he roped you into doing some of his chores. Even though you’re a _guest_!” 

Terra opens her mouth and shuts it. As often happens with the people she encounters, Katarin’s spoken words don’t quite match her precise meaning. She doesn’t seem to be trying to trick Terra, either. 

“I felt like I had to do it,” Terra says at last. “I’m a guest but… That doesn’t mean I can’t help out, right?” She really wants to know. 

Duane and Katarin share a look. 

“Yes,” Katarin says. "Sure you can."

“The strong need to protect the weak. That’s true no matter what the state of the world.” Duane looks at her long enough that Terra realizes he’s talking about her, and in a favorable way.

That evening, Terra learns there is a kind of contentment that comes with fulfilling a necessity. She helps the two teenagers prepare a meal for the children- Katarin chattering all the while about her methods to use as little food as possible- and then Terra assists them in filling their plates. These children are still alive, and therefore they need to eat every day. Like servicing the war machines in Vector, the children need assistance in order to keep operating. 

_(The machines in Vector never chattered about their day, however. Nor did they ever pitch a fit at the thought of going to bed.)_

*

Terra dreams about her friends from the time before. It's inevitable. She sees their bodies every night. Impaled on mountain ridges, or smashed to bloody ruin in the wreckage of an airship. The lack of knowledge creates a void where anything and everything is possible. The gods must have created espers and humans in an equally empty space, but Terra has no wish to play at being a deity. 

Each morning she feels a strange burning pressure in her eyes, She’ll shake her head, trying to dislodge the sensation, wondering if there’s a cancerous growth somewhere in her skull. 

_Some of them must have survived_ , she thinks, without any real conviction. _They are strong._

She begins a routine of staying up late, reading books pilfered from a dead man’s library. She soaks in the words, allows them fall into her brain, and she begins to see the world through newly aware eyes. She takes in tales of heroism and bravery, cowardice and deceit, romance and loss. She learns about history, science, and technology. She begins to construct a timeline of the world; all the things that led her to this point, to this decimated city at the edge of the world. 

Her nocturnal ways give her a second purpose. The children often have nightmares, and at the first hint of screaming, she’s on her feet. Part of it is simply because she knows the horror of waking up frightened in a dark room, but part of it is… something else entirely. Some compulsive need to comfort these children. 

“Good night, mama,” one little boy says, sleepily, after several nights pass in this way. It’s the first time anyone names her as such, and Terra is so stunned she neither confirms nor denies it. 

“Goodnight, Mikheil.” 

After this encounter, her habit morphs into something else. She reads to the children before they go to bed. For her it's a continual learning experience, and for them it's a type of lullaby. There are fewer bad dreams all around.

*

Terra is less certain when it comes to farming. She has been in an itinerant state during her time with the Returners, and she’s never been in one place long enough to learn agricultural habits. Still, there’s a need to do it. Terra learns that horrific scavengers circle in the air with some frequency, and on rare occasions that the coast is clear one must do farming work. Or there will simply be no new food.

Katarin asks some of the children to helping Terra in her endeavor. For the most part they chatter to one another, a few of the older ones muttering behind gritted teeth that ‘the soil doesn’t look too good these days.’ Terra digs her fingers into the earth and wonders what good soil would feel like. 

“Are you a rusalka?” One of the girls asks, and Terra recalls that her name is Elene.

“What is that?” Terra blinks. She must ask the question, because maybe she is one. 

Elene elbows the younger boy standing next to her. They have the look of siblings. “See, Kostandin? She’s not. So stop blabbing about it.” 

Kostandin wanders up to Terra and gives her an appraising look. “You didn’t say you aren’t.” 

Terra sits on the ground, cross-legged, to look him in the face. “I don’t know what one is.” 

“They’re scary things. Ghosts of dead women.” Elene clasps her hands, her eyes shining. Terra notes that, despite the grim topic, the girl is a bit excited. “They’re usually by the water.”

“We found you by the shore,” Kostandin says, solemn. “And rusalka like to drown men. So if you are one, can you not kill us? None of us are grown yet. Probably not even Katarin or Duane even if they like to pretend they are.”

Terra rests her knuckles on her knees and thinks. Wonders if this myth of rusalki is related to espers, and the War of the Magi. Perhaps not; there are other kinds of monsters in this world, after all.

“I don’t drown anyone,” Terra says, and she can almost feel the heat of her fire. The inferno of the battlefield. “And I’m just a- I’m not a rusalka.” 

“Oh.” Kostandin looks a tad disappointed, and Terra wonders why some people secretly want the things they know are dangerous.

“A water spirit, hm?” Terra tries to picture it. “They probably feel like cold, clammy fish.” She smiles.

“Ewww.” Kostantin and Elene both sound delighted.

Terra reaches out to shake hands in the manner she’s seen among the Returners. Kostantin returns the gesture. “Yes, you feel human.” 

_And if I wasn’t one?_ “I won’t be a danger to anyone here.” Terra gets to her feet, brushing dirt from her hands. Kostantin runs off to supervise another farming project, and Elene reaches over and hugs Terra. 

“What?” Terra returns the embrace, and it feels like Elene’s sharp bones stab into her heart. Katarin’s right; there isn’t enough food to go around.

“Kosta likes to ask a lot of questions.” Elene laughs, and presses her hands to her face. “Some of the other kids hate it, and he misses our mom a lot. I guess… thank you for talking to him?” Her voice squeaks at the end. From uncertainty, Terra thinks, but the look in the child’s eyes suggests unhappier undercurrents. “I can’t do it all.”

“Ah, well,” Terra muses. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking questions.”

*

The hug from Elene opens up a new avenue by which Terra analyzes the world. She watches interactions between the survivors of Mobliz, and observes that humans like to reach out and touch one another . It’s a type of communication that comes with rules and habits of its own.

There’s the way the children embrace her whenever she does something helpful (sometimes when she so much as smiles at them.) There’s the way that Katarin pats them all on the shoulder when she’s feeling affectionate. There’s the way the kids gently punch and shove each other, and then laugh about it as if it were even better than a hug.

Katarin and Duane reserve some actions for their alliance of two. They kiss all the time, like they might not get to ever again. When things are peaceful, they take to one small room for hours at a time. The older kids- the ones just a few years shy of adolescence- joke that they’re going to make everyone a new sibling soon enough. /p>

After Terra’s lived here a while, she starts dressing in the Mobliz fashion. That means close fitting trousers, and tunics that drape to her mid thigh. They’re light and comfortable, and help Terra to move through the harsh terrain with ease. 

Katarin smiles a bit sadly when she sees Terra attired thus. “You look like a Mobliz girl now,” she says. “You could have grown up here and gone to school with me.” When she turns Terra around to help her braid her hair, Terra thinks about protesting that her ponytail works just fine. However, it seems that Katarin needs this moment far more than Terra needs a new hairstyle. Terra keeps her peace, and even enjoys the feeling of Katarin's fingers combing through her hair. 

_(It’s strange that Terra can picture dealing a killing blow to Kefka, but she cannot imagine herself as a schoolgirl surrounded by friends.)_

*****

When the sun rises in the sky, and holy magic is at its strongest (or so Mobliz's folklore says) Katarin walks barefoot through the crop fields. She shakes a set of tiny bells, and chants a prayer for the health of their land. She was once the daughter of Mobliz's shaman and now, it would seem, she believes the city's spirituality is her responsibility. 

"Sometimes she tells me that she thinks Mobliz is cursed by the gods," Duane tells Terra once. Every morning he waits for Katarin to come back, and Terra has begun holding this vigil along with him.

"Why does she say that?" Terra asks.

Duane sighs. "We used to be nomads on the steppes. Katarin wonders if we've forsaken the gods by living in a walled city and they are taking revenge." 

Terra remembers a relevant chapter from one of her books. "Didn't that happen centuries ago?"

"The gods have long memories." 

 

*** ******

Conservation is key these days, and in the spirit of that Terra winds up holding on to her old clothes. One day she begins tearing them apart at the seams, thinking that, perhaps, she can convert them cloth that can be put to other purposes. 

When she tugs at one seam, coins fall out and clatter to the ground. They’re gold, silver, copper, bronze, all kinds of metal, really. The paper notes bear the faces of monarchs and rulers from many different cities, towns, and principalities. She kneels down on the floor, clutches a bill from Jidoor, and remembers how this money wound up where it did.

Yes, it was Locke’s influence. Back in Figaro, she had once caught him taking needle and thread to one of his shirts, sewing money in between the pieces of fabric. After being questioned, Locke had explained that it was one of the most foolproof ways to ensure you always had money on hand. 

_“Or to keep a thief from getting it easily,”_ he had said, with a smile that Terra now recognizes as self deprecating. His explanation had seemed reasonable to her, and she had asked Locke to show her how to do the same. 

The habit proves to be a fortunate one. After all, here she stands, surrounded by a veritable small fortune. If she puts it to good use, could enrich this small, struggling town. That is, if there are places in the world that recognize cash. If there are places that still trade in money, rather than meat, shelter, and water. 

If there are other places in the world at all.

She wander over to the wall, leans her elbows against the windowsill, and stares out at the Veldt. The setting sun is turning the sky into the approximate color of lacerated skin, and she feels the horizon tugging at her. It sinks its claws into her heart and she knows she won’t be content until she knows what’s out there. 

The question remains; why hasn’t she gone already? She’s been strong enough to leave this place for some time now.

*****

“Thamina is going to lose,” One of the children, Shirin, says. She's looking over at her cousin.

Some of the others are crouched around a game board, moving pieces about, rolling dice, and varying between arguing and giggling. A few others are napping. Terra had played this game, won once (“winners luck!”), lost the second round, and is now relaxing with Shirin. 

“What makes you think so?” The rules are still lost on Terra for the most part.

“She seems bored.” Shirin shrugs. She had played one round, herself, before opting to sit by the windows. Terra understands that action now; the light filtering through the glass is pleasant on her skin. “Thamina usually loses when that happens. But she’ll stick around until the others stop playing.” 

During the attack on Mobliz, flying debris had managed to severe Shirin’s hand completely. Whenever she talks about that injury, she mentions it in a detached sort of way. Allegedly Duane had seen her bleeding, carried her over the kitchen, and cauterized her wrist. Shirin seems to be taking this loss in stride, prone as she is to shoving her stump in people’s faces and laughing at their reactions.

_(One morning, when she and Terra were the only ones awake, Shirin had confessed that sometimes she still feels a ghost hand attached to her arm. Terra had told her that was common enough among similarly wounded people and, no, there was nothing wrong with her.)_

“Do you and Thamina get along?” Terra asks. She is especially fascinated by the varying permutations of familial relationships. 

Shirin opens her mouth to speak, but the words never come out. There’s a strange whining sound from outside, a pulsating rhythm in the air, and Terra feels the window break before it happens. She dives to cover Shirin, and glass shards rain onto her back. She doesn’t have to look to know that some of them pierced through her back and that she is bleeding. Terra sits up, and takes in the sight of the other children. No one is hurt, but they are wide-eyed, shaking, whispering things like ‘no, no, no,” and ‘not again.’ Somehow this spurs her into action. She leaps outside, landing with cat-like grace. There are three demons in the sky; creatures with the faces of men, bodies like lions, wings made of knives, and they float amidst shrapnel and dust. When they open their mouths they emit an unearthly shriek. 

She should be scared but, instead, she burns with purpose. She raises her hands above her head, performs lightning spells, and she kills them, banishes them. And if her magic feels diminished, somehow, at least it serves its purpose.

Later, when she looks in a mirror, she’ll understand what the others saw after the battled ended. Her tunic is torn to shreds, blood soaked, and her hair is snarled around her head. They’re no longer scared by injury or magic. They simply crowd around her, praising her, calling her mother, until Katarin reminds them that she’s all scratched up and in need of care. 

“So you were a soldier for Vector,” Thamina says, as Terra plucks glass from Shirin’s skin. The girl looks on in concern, and Terra thinks Shirin eventually would have said that, yes, she and her cousin are close. “Since you have magic.”

She chants a cure spell and Shirin’s scratches smooth out, fade away to nothing. Shirin whistles low, and then smiles in stark amazement.

“Yes, I was.” Terra stands up, and the two sisters follow suit. 

“Well, there were _a lot_ of them,” Thamina muses. “I guess they can’t all be evil.”

Shirin elbows Thamina. “She actually killed lamassi for us!” she exclaims, naming one of the ancient demons that have begun roaming the Veldt with more frequency. “Isn’t that amazing?”

“Definitely.” Thamina rarely smiles, but when she does she always looks a bit stunned to be happy.

“Some of the little ones called me ‘mother.’” Terra begins the process of unsnarling her hair and tying it back up. “I wonder why.”

Thamina props her chin up on one of her fists. “Well, most of them saw their parents dying to protect us. So, to them, you acted just like a mother.”

Terra thinks on her vision of her mother lying dead in the forest, a knife in her throat. “My mother died trying to save me, too.”

*****

From that day on, she begins teaching the children self-defense. How to run and hide in the best locations, and how to attack if the situation demands it. The children begin to understand what Terra already knows; knowledge leads to self-confidence.

*****

Starvation is more of a threat than demon attacks, however. Katarin has a habit of going to the storerooms, counting up their supply of seeds, and coming back with a face like rotten milk.

“What do you know about the rest of the world?” She asks Katarin and Duane one night, as they are making sure the boarded in windows are still holding. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Duane says. The mirth in his laughter is as false as a thief. (Falser, actually.) 

“Maybe we should leave?” They could do it, Terra thinks. She could lead them across the steppes.

“I’ve thought about it.” Duane sits down on one of the battered up couches. “But some of the young ones are still weak.”

“Also this is all I- all we know. It might hurt their spirits to have to leave, after everything that happened.” Katarin joins him, and Duane throws an arm around her shoulders. “Our gods are here. Even if some might be angry with us.” 

“Just give me a second,” Terra says. (Even though she knows her actions will take longer than a second. It’s just what people say.) When she returns, she tosses her stash of money at her friends’ feet.

Katarin gasps, and Duane leans forward to count up the money.

“I can’t be sure,” he says, slowly, “but this is probably more than our parents make in a year.”

Terra shrugs because she can’t confirm or deny the veracity of this. 

“Looks like being in the Gestahlian army pays well.” Katarin says. She hugs her knees to her chest, and looks the very picture of misery.

“I suppose.” Terra doesn’t say that the majority of this is plunder from defeated soldiers and demons. Or that her captors certainly never paid her. “I’ve been thinking for some time that I could… Go see what’s out there. And if there are other towns I could buy grain and crops from them.” She pauses. “I don’t intend to run. I’d come back. And then you’d know more about what’s out there. This way you wouldn’t have to leave before it’s safe for the children.” She’s haunted by the possibility that demons might kill them before she has the chance to come back, but she would rather take action than watch Mobliz succumb to a lingering death from hunger. 

“It makes sense, but-”

Duane’s words are cut off when Katarin begins to cry. This is not the picturesque weeping of heroines from Terra’s stolen novels; this is flat-out sobbing, and Terra guiltily wonders what she did to merit this reaction. 

“It’s probably dangerous out there,” Katarin wipes tears away with her sleeve, and it's not the first time Terra's noticed the circles under her eyes. Duane leans over to kiss her on the temple.

“I know, Katarin,” he says, in a gentle voice. “But did you see how Terra killed the lamassi?” 

Katarin nods, and laughs for some reason. “Yes, I’m being silly. I’m sorry. If anyone can survive out there then it’s Terra.”

_People touch all the time_. Terra takes a gamble and rests her hands on Katarin’s forearms. Judging by the way Katarin leans against her, Terra seems to have guessed correctly.

“I’ll be alright out there. I promise.” She smiles, because people have made promises to her before, and now she can do the same for others. “And I’ll definitely come back.” 

“You’ll always be welcome here,” Katarin says, when Terra steps back.

“Yes.” Duane nods his agreement. “Mobliz is your home if you want it.” 

*****

Once the decision is made, all involved agree that she must leave at dawn. Better to go all at once, rather than give the children a chance to worry over it for weeks. 

The survivors of Mobliz all line up to see her on her way. Some are crying, others smile, and every single child is brave. 

Duane walks up to her and hands her a packet of food meant for the trip. In the times before, Mobliz’s economy had been bolstered by outfitting tourists for their trips out into the Veldt. Duane’s father had run one such shop. Terra knows by now that it would be graceless to refuse, even if they need these things. “For the trip.” 

Katarin presses a warm mug into her hands. “It’s milk tea,” she explains. “When someone we love leaves Mobliz we pour out milk to the gods and ancestors. But, well…” She trails off, and Terra understands. It’s wearying to constantly mention the facts of poverty. It's wearying to explain that sometimes tradition takes a backseat to need. “May it help keep you warm.”

When Terra turns and begins her journey into the unknown, she does not look back. However, the words of goodbye ring in her ears like a particularly memorable melody from the opera.  


Katarin has labeled her as someone worthy of love.

*****

Terra’s journey hugs the shore. Water and life coexist hand in glove, and civilizations always spring up by rivers and oceans. If there are other survivors, she will find some of them by this sandy wasteland. If not- if Mobliz truly is all that’s left- it’s a comfort knowing she can retrace her steps. Water will lead the way back.

The Veldt is every bit as feral and undisciplined as has been rumored, with miles upon miles of brownish grass sprawling out into infinity. Every so often Terra sees animal carcasses, piles of bones (some even look human), or desperate creatures that must one foot in the realm of death. Other animals seem as strong as they must have been in the times before, and that gives Terra hope. Perhaps the world isn’t rotting from within after all.

Clouds blot out the sun in vast streaks. The wind howls through Terra, throwing dirt in her eyes, and yanking the breath from her lungs. Even when her eyes water from the pain, she feels as though she could spread her arms and let the wind hold her aloft. When she is on the steppe, surrounded by nothing but emptiness and violent gales, she notes that this is what she feels in her bones before she transforms into an esper. 

She comes closer to understanding the placidity of her father’s people; emotions are a redundancy when you hold all of nature in your palm.

When sky clears, Terra watches the sun set in a vicious blaze, she bites into beef jerky, and remembers Gau. When they had retrieved her from Zozo, he had spent the better part of a half hour tailing her and talking about his homeland. He had spoken slowly, conveying his meaning through monosyllabic words; people were scared of the Veldt, but if they looked closer they would see adventure and life as well.

If she ever finds him again, she’ll tell Gau that she now understands what he was trying to say.

*

Setting up a tent is a familiar ritual for Terra. So is mouthing the words of a protection spell in order to cloak her position from the eyes of predators.

The habit of insomnia remain equally steadfast; this far from Mobliz she frets over the children’s welfare, and whether Duane and Katarin are running themselves ragged. One such sleepless evening whining howls and clawing sounds interrupt her musings. When she opens the flap of her tent six or seven pairs of bright yellow eyes slice through the darkness of her campsite. They belong to a type of wolf that only roams on the Veldt and, though they can’t break past her spell, they are aware that she is there. Terra kneels and glares back. She doesn’t move, she barely breathes, and eventually the pack slinks off in search of easier prey.

Somehow she is not scared of the thought of sharp teeth digging into her skin and rending flesh from her bones. More shocking is the realization that her magic is no longer as potent as it once was. She has noticed it before in Mobliz, and she notices it now. Once upon a time, her protection spells had been foolproof. Back then it had seemed impossible that anyone could so much as detect her work.

But the world is choking to death on impossibilities.

*****

 

Terra holds her flame filled hands under a mug, and contemplates how long it takes for water to boil. (A long time, it would seem.) She is thankful to have discovered a lake and is equally relieved she has enough presence of mind to care about water purity. Disease and infection were the leading basis of casualties in Vector’s armies, far more than wounds received in combat, and Terra is determined not to perish from such a thing. Even if she currently feels as though her body has been carved from salt and ash. 

When Terra hears footsteps, she steels herself for battle. Since she set food on the Veldt she he has had to dispatch wild predators every few days. When she slowly turns her head, she first sees tiny human feet, and then a doll clutched in a child’s fist. Her spy is the very first human she’s seen in a week.

_Oh, is she abandoned?_ Terra gestures for the child to come closer. “Hello, are you alright?” 

The girl blinks at Terra, her eyes as blank as two gray stones, and then she turns and runs away. Two adults stand sentinel in the far distance, and they appear to be calling the girl’s name. She is not an abandoned child after all.

Terra takes in the adults’ posture and thinks they must be looking at her with suspicion before they turn to leave. She watches that small family disappear into the horizon and envy punches her in the gut.

_Now, now_ , she scolds herself. _You belonged to two different groups, and you left them both. You flew from one, and walked from another. You have no right to feel lonely._

*****

Terra encounters other humans. Some are robbers and bandits, threats best avoided. Others are refugee families grateful to encounter a soldier equipped with the magic of the fallen Empire. Terra invokes cure spells over their children, accepts the food they give her in gratitude, and listens to tales of what has happened to the world during her isolation. 

Terra begins to notice commonalities among them all. 

“You’re from Vector, aren’t you?” she asks a young mother named Livia, as the woman’s son dozes in Terra’s lap. “Nearly everyone I’ve met so far has been.”

“Yes, we are.” Livia has the accent of someone raised in the slums of the Imperial City. “The upper levels were destroyed, but those of us on the outskirts made a run for it. We were able to survive because we were too far from the blast.” She smiles, crookedly. “First time being dirt poor has helped any of us, I’d bet.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Terra thinks of the magitek labs’ indentured servants. Slaves, really, given how little they were paid. The ones who sometimes sneaked bread or candy to her during her otherwise tightly constrained childhood. “Why did you end up on this continent?” She is beginning to get a mental picture of the new world map, and Livia has traveled quite a distance.

Livia reaches over and brushes hair from her son’s forehead. “Tzen and Albrook were none too keen to care for a bunch of refugees. Not if they were from the city that once occupied them. I think they just want to get on with their lives and forget that Vector ever existed. Can’t blame them really.” 

Terra turns her head from left to right, looking at the tents and fires that dot the landscape. At night, the ocean waves hiss and crash against the sand. “So you’re going to start again all the way over here?” 

“We’re going to try.”

 *****

 

With every footstep, it feels as though the land becomes more and more congested with humans. Terra can no longer speak to all of them, but she can hear snatches of conversation. What they were doing the day the world ended. Rumors that Kefka had holed up in a tower and was attacking villages with high powered energy beams. Refugees’ relatives who had gone north in search of a fabled tower and never returned. As she listens, she looks out over the sea and is gratified at the sight of a landmass across the water. 

Terra arrives at an impromptu port town, and she asks around to see if there are any available ships. 

“We’re ferrying people back and forth from the Veldt to Albrook,” says a man who has the look of a sailor. Terra wonders if it might be a trick, but decides that these refugees had had to get across the ocean _somehow_. “Do you wanna go?” 

“When do you leave?”

“In about two hours.” 

Terra is about to protest that, no, that’s too soon. She has to prepare for the voyage. And then she realizes that, no, she’s only in charge of herself, all her materials are strapped to her back, and there is nothing keeping her here. 

As the boat pulls away and the Veldt recedes into the distance, Terra wonders if she will ever see it again.


	2. Chapter 2

The currency exchange officer in Albrook squints at Terra’s offerings, and then grumbles under his breath. He categorizes the bills and coins into their cities of origin, kneels, and then unlocks the safe below his desk. In time, he reemerges- much like a gopher on the Veldt plain- holding money aloft. Terra gives him an involuntary smile, certain that she has enough money to accomplish her task. 

The Vector money sits in a faraway pile, unclaimed and quarantined. 

“Will you be able to convert those as well?” 

The man makes a face, and for a second or two Terra think he might spit. “That crap has no value anymore with the city destroyed. And good old emperor Gestahl screwed us over even more since his money was made of paper. If it had been gold we could have melted it down at least.” 

“Ah.” Terra’s heart shudders to hear the emperor maligned so, certain that it can’t possibly be safe to do so. It would seem that he really, truly is dead, his kingdom smashed to ruin, his ideals perverted by Kefka. It should feel like a victory, but how can it when he influences the world even from the grave? 

The currency officer’s expression softens somewhat, while Terra folds her money with care. “Don’t flash that around, mind. Lots of thieves running around these days. How did you get so much money, anyway? Were you a diplomat in the old days or something?” 

Terra frowns. Even now, she is haunted by her banquet with Gestahl. Each time she remembers it, she tries to find a moment that foretold the specificity of his later treachery. 

“I wasn't a very good one.”

The man throws his head back and laughs, startling Terra. “Ah, bless. Welcome to Albrook, dear.” 

*****

This far south, the wind has a temperate and balmy feeling to it. Warm or not, they are on the lean side of spring, and it’s dusk when Terra sets foot outside. A metallic, acrid scent clings to the air, invading Terra’s nostrils. It is at odds with the natural beauty of the bay. The sky is like a dove, the water is like a dark blue mirror, and boats bob along in its rippling surface. It would be difficult to see this as a city besieged, just like all the others. However, look closer, squint a bit, and one can see the foundations of houses that were swept to see. Entire families drowned on the day Kefka angered the Triad. 

Terra’s eyes drink in their fill of the shore, and she takes the time to redo her ponytail. As she does so, she cringes at the way her hands smell like the sea.

_We have salt and bread to share with you._

There it is again; the peculiar, foreign sensation in her eyes. The sheer oddity of it brings her back to her purpose. She is not a tourist. (Terra has never been something so carefree as a tourist, not once in her entire life.) The means to her goal lie in the heart of Albrook, not in its outskirts. 

Later, she will wonder what would have happened if she had turned a second later. Would she still have caught a glimpse of a familiar pair of shoulders? Would her breath have caught in her throat, and would her first friend’s name have burst from her lips?

“Locke.” He can’t hear her. It’s to be expected in this city where there’s a musician on every corner. Terra must compete with drums, trumpets, and strings, but she is frantic enough to win. “Locke,” she calls again, pelting forward.

The man turns and, yes, there he is. He has the same face, the same style of dress, and an expression Terra has never seen from him before. Never aimed at her. For a second he stands as still as any statue, looking at Terra as though she were a spirit raised from the dead. As she draws closer, she attempts to slow her momentum. However, Locke grabs her upper arms- just plucks her clean off the sidewalk- and spins her around. It’s a movement that seems entirely uncalculated, as if Locke’s body is dislodged from his brain. Terra is giddy from surprise as her feet fly above the cobblestones. When he sets her down, his hands remain on her shoulders. 

“You, it’s…” His gaze never leaves her face. It’s as though he thinks the wind will carry her away if he so much as blinks. “I thought you were…” 

_This isn’t a myth, Locke. I won’t melt or vanish if you look elsewhere._

“I was so sure you must be dead, too.” For the first time, Terra notes that it’s easy for her to name her fears for what they are. Locke, however, goes pale at the mention of mortality. Terra wonders how many of his emotions are boxed in, caged up, going wild from the neglect. 

“The others?” Locke asks, with the cadence of someone certain of the answer. “I’ve been all over the place and I’ve heard rumors. Never managed to find any of them.” 

Terra shakes her head. “I haven’t been able to locate them, either.” She folds her arms low on her torso, her hands gripping her elbows. “To be fair, I haven’t been able to look very far.” 

“Yes, judging by your clothes, you were probably out on the Veldt, right? Mobliz?” Locke appears to be looking at her with a critical eye, now that he is beginning to recover from initial shock. 

Terra nods. “You probably wouldn’t have recognized me if we had passed each other by?” She speaks about the clothes, yes. She also speaks about the purpose in her step, and the way her reactions are beginning to match what she feels inside. At times it feels as though she’s wearing a costume, and her new determination could be snatched away with ease. 

“Don’t worry, it’s a good look on you,” Locke says. “And I would have recognized you anywhere.” 

*****

Locke mumbles that he will be a good host, even though neither of them calls Albrook their home. Once again, the act of being welcoming seems to manifest in offering her food. From the moment Terra sets foot in Locke’s restaurant of choice, the scent chases all thought of polite refusal from her mind. The starvation in her gut is akin to a low-banked fire. The sight of food- and lots of it- goads the spark of her hunger. At once she feels as though she could float away, and Locke has to seize her by the arm and steer her to the nearest table. 

Oh, but when the stew arrives, it is deliciousness incarnate. For long minutes she hardly thinks about Locke at all as she scarfs down her meal. First she revels in the simple pleasure of sated appetite. Then she begins to appreciate the medley of flavors across her tongue; black olives, fish, quince, rice, fruit, and dates. Cinnamon, cumin, and lemon. In one bite, Terra enjoys more variety and substance than anything that devastated Mobliz can offer, even on a _good_ day. She wants to stuff the entire slice of bread into her face, until she realizes it would be better for mopping up the remains of her meal. 

When there’s nothing left for her to do but gawp at an empty bowl, Terra exhales and rights her posture. Locke has scarcely touched his dinner, and she tries not to give it a pointed look because it would be in her friend’s nature to relinquish his food to her at the first sign of distress.

“Hungry?” he asks at last, and then makes a face. “Sorry.” 

“Why? It is- _was_ a fact. Thank you for paying for my dinner.”

Locke waves it away, with one flippant gesture. “You’re my friend and I know how to get money. It’s nothing.” 

Before the world ended I might hav accepted that. However, now that food is scarce on the eastern continent I'm not sure I agree.” She smiles to soften the blow of her words. It’s something she’s seen Katarin do while reminding Duane about things. “You’ve helped me live for another day, and that means a lot.” 

Locke eyes dart to the side, and Terra has forgotten this about him. When he cannot control a situation, a part of him will always been looking to run to steady ground.

“So times have been hard, huh?” He asks. 

“They’ve been… difficult. Hunger has been the worst, though. As you can probably see.” This is a moment where Duane would probably unleash a sardonic laugh. It’s too late for Terra to do the same. The beat of a conversation is as important as the content. 

“Is that why you’re here? To buy food for them?” 

“Yes.” As she gives him affirmations, some of the street musicians wander into the establishment to begin playing. Terra has to raise her voice to be heard over their drums. “They’re running out of seeds, it’s planting time, and the soil isn’t so good.” 

Locke leans a little closer. “How isn’t it good?” He nods as Terra tells him all she has seen. “That’s not just because of Kefka, though that couldn’t have helped. They’ve overworked the soil. They probably need to farm elsewhere.” 

Terra’s jaw drops. “Do they teach farming in treasure hunting school?” 

Locke has enough grace to not express any astonishment he may be feeling at the discovery that Terra is capable of joking. He laughs with her as he would with any friend.

All at once, the camaraderie is a bit too much. Terra ducks her head into her chin, and smiles as her bangs fall over her forehead. Back in Mobliz, her longing for her friends was most acute was the children laughed

“Hey, you okay?” Locke asks, and Terra nods. “I grew up on a plantation in Kohlingen. Did I ever tell you that?”

“One of the agricultural divisions?” It’s something she’s learned from her journey into history books; the country of Kohlingen is divided into units, with a governor overseeing each separate farming entity. Each unit has a hierarchy of workers, with lower class planters at the very bottom of the pyramid. 

“Yes. Until I was ten my grandmother raised me while my father was off doing… whatever it was that he did.” Locke scratches at the back of his head. “When she passed away, I had to leave with him and learn how to steal. But the damage was already done. I know how to grow plants.” 

_Sometimes, Terra recalls things from those dark weeks in Zozo. She would hear snatches of conversation amidst whirling darkness, and the pain, pain, pain._

“Is this the grandmother who told you about espers?” _The espers who found friendship with humans. I need to hear more stories like that._

“That’s the one. She was a smart old lady. So don’t worry, I’ll be able to help you figure out what Mobliz needs.” 

And then, with one smooth motion, he slides his untouched bowl of stew over to her. It would seem that, despite her best efforts, Locke cans see through her, right down to the hunger that clings to her bones. 

*****

There’s no question that Terra should rest her head anywhere but Locke’s small hotel room. They’ve slept in inns and tents before, dating all the way back to their first dramatic departure from Narshe. 

The cashier looks up from his book to raise his eyebrow at the sigh of the two of them. Locke just laughs without explaining a single thing, and Terra wonders how to interpret that. 

Once they are inside the bedroom, Locke turns the gaslights on. It suffuses the area with a warm, rich glow and Terra thinks _yes, this is what friendship looks like._

The bathroom is as cramped as the rest of this hotel, but the tiles beneath her feet are an inestimable luxury. The bathtub with running water is a relic from the realm of the gods. (Better. The gods are high on wonder and horror, but low on practicality.) 

She sinks into the steaming water, not recoiling in the way most are wont to do. She combs her finger through tangled strands of wet hair- it feels so much like seaweed- and wonders if she’s turning into a rusalka after all. And then she takes a deep breath and scrubs the Veldt and the sea from her skin. 

“Your hair is dry,” Locke says when she reemerges, wrapped in a bathing robe. 

Terra holds up her hands. “Fire magic, remember?” 

Locke shivers. “Seems like a recipe for disaster.” 

“Not yet.” 

They sleep in the same bed; there’s only one in the room, but it’s large enough to accommodate two. Despite Terra feeling drowsy and fortunate after a feast _and_ a bath, sleeplessness continues to lay claim to her spirit. She listens to Locke’s breathing and determines he’s probably not asleep yet.

“Locke,” she whispers. “Locke, how can we be sure they’re all dead?” 

There’s no answer. Maybe he isn’t awake after all.

*****

Locke appears younger when he sleeps. Not carefree, of course; even in this dim light she can see the tension in his eyebrows, and the way he clenches his jaw. All the same, relaxation smooths out his face and it’s far easier for Terra to see him as a peer.

Somehow, her thoughts turn to marriage. In Jidoor and Figaro, such unions are marked by ostentatious celebrations. In Vector spouses register with the government and enter their blood into a database in order to prevent bigamy. In Mobliz, weddings are as simple as two people announcing their intent to marry. Regardless of custom, all marriages seem to end in two humans sharing a room and a bed. 

How many night have Lock and Terra slept side-by-side? Too many times to count. But things often look different by the light of day. 

She’s shuffling through her garments when Locke wakes and speaks to her. 

“Good morning, Terra.” 

Having decided on a blue tunic with simple black embroidery (while on the Veldt, it had been annoying carting around nicer clothes, but she is glad to have them now) she looks over her shoulder to smile at him. She hopes her dawn time musings don’t show on her face. 

“Morning.” She turns back to her luggage, locates her outfit’s matching trousers, and shakes them out.

Otherwise, the two of them are quiet as they prepare for the day. As Locke applies kohl to his eyelids, Terra stands behind him and watches the process via his reflection in a mirror. She begins to understand why he looks younger when sleeping; the faint trace of cosmetics narrows his eyes and highlights his incisive gaze. Between that and his high cheekbones, her Locke is comprised of angles, lines, and inscrutability. He knows everything about what she has done in the new world, and Terra knows little about how he’s been leading his life. This discrepancy hangs between them like mismatched scales, and she thinks about asking him about it. 

Instead, as if in anticipation of Terra’s intent, Locke meets her reflected stare. “Should we get going?”

*****

The damp air of Albrook seeps into Terra’s skin, and she’s relieved she avoided wearing a scarf. She can already feel strands of hair sticking to the back of her neck. 

“Yeah, the weather here is fun isn’t it?” Locke asks as they set foot in the marketplace. Terra turns in a slow circle, noting that the market looks much the same as it did the first time she came here. It seems remarkable to her that commerce can continue unabated. 

“I have no idea where to start with all this,” she confesses to Locke. “If Mobliz needed weapons or armor, then maybe…” They need those too, probably, but human beings can’t eat metal.

“It’s okay. I’m hear to help you with that, remember?” 

They walk along in search of the section that houses agricultural items. “Yes, just remember to tell me why you pick the things you do. So I know what to do next time.” There will be a next time, she decides, because the children will survive.

“Sure.” And if Locke looks confused at her insistence on this, he does make good on her promise. He helps her choose seeds that would grow well in the Veldt’s arid climate. With his considerable charm, Locke mediates a conversation between Terra and the shopkeeper, swapping tips about ways to coax unwilling soil into bearing fruit. The hotel is an inconvenient location to store Terra’s purchases, so the shopkeeper agrees to keep them until such time as she begins on her journey. In the end, Terra realizes that she traveled for weeks in order to take part in an hour-long transaction.

When she and Locke set outside, Terra cannot stop herself from giggling. She laughs at the absurdity of her situation, but also from sheer relief.

“So how did I do?” If Locke is worried about her, his face doesn’t show it. Terra is grateful to him for his understanding the nature of her mirth. 

“Very well.” _Thank you, for everything._ “Do you know if the messenger birds still travel to Mobliz?” 

Locke’s eyes light up at that. He only looks like this when he has a question to answer, an assignment to complete, a promise to fulfill. It impresses and worries Terra. What does his soul look like when life forces him to be at rest? 

She pushes that thought aside as they make their way to the post office. Numerous pigeons clamber for attention in the upstairs rookery, and Terra grimaces.

“Poor dear,” she murmurs at a birds that belongs to the Vector route. It looks like it hasn’t been allowed to fly since the sundering of the world. She pets it on the forehead, and contemplates how unfair is for life to renders one’s purpose obsolete. 

“Terra…” Locke has her back to her, and he holds her letter to Katarin. As is the case with the Veldt’s demons, they _feel_ the attack before it happens. A rush of heat seems to burn her from within, and Locke has to pull her to the ground. Pale yellow light splits the uniformity of the sky- like lightning, or wolves’ eyes- and then it’s gone in the space of a heartbeat. 

Screams well up from the ground, and those last far longer.

*****

_It could be worse._

That’s the ultimate conclusion of Albrook’s citizens. Kefka’s Light of Judgment injured a few sailors, but no one died. The harbor’s ships did not fare as well. Some devolved into ashes right where they floated, and that is a poisonous loss in a city where the sea is its lifeblood. But they know it could be worse because they’ve _seen_ worse. 

That night, Terra and Locke opt to go to a local bar. Men and women eager for company and momentary oblivion swarm its tables, and Terra and Locke are just one of the multitudes. She watches women dance in the middle of the bar. Their eyes are feverish, their movement self-assured, their brightly colored skirts flare out as they twirl, and Terra wishes she could join them. _How nice it must be to know how to do something simply because it’s beautiful._

Locke tries to argue her out of purchasing liquor, but he doesn’t put up much of a fight. As she downs a small glass filled with clear liquid, it burns a trail down her throat 

“Oh my.” She coughs. Takes another drink. Soon enough, Terra’s veins are replete with light and magic. And alcohol. “You know how when you cast a spell you can sense it floating through you? I feel like I’m about to cast muddle.” 

That merits barking laughter from Locke. “Try casting that on the people here and they probably wouldn’t notice.” The bartender seeks them out, and places Locke’s beer in front of him. Locke holds the glass aloft. 

“I used to toast to the destruction of the Empire. Now it’s gone and I don’t know what to ask for. It’s not like things are any better, really.”

Terra briefly rests her hand on his shoulder before withdrawing it. She remembers what she learned about farming today, and how too much care can kill as easily as too little. 

The bartender saves her the trouble of answering. “Don’t worry too much,” he tells Locke. “Albrook’s seen the rise and fall of all kinds of kingdoms and empires. They’re gone and we’re still standing.” 

When he’s gone on his way, Terra swallows another shot. “Is it enough to just stay standing, though?” Her tongue is heavy, and her questions feel far, _far_ more urgent. 

“Let me know if you ever find the answer to that, Terra.” 

*****

By the time Locke and Terra return to the hotel, inebriation has put a hold on philosophical rumination. For a minute or two, they burst into helpless giggling at the seemingly impossible task up of dealing with the stairs. Ultimately, Locke wraps one arm around Terra’s back, just below her ribcage. Observers might think he’s the one assisting her, but she feels him leaning into her as well. Liquor has made Terra wobbly, but her foundation is solid and she’s willing to lend Locke some of her strength. 

Their room is dark. Through the window, the late night sky is a nightmarish purple and the fog of urbanization blots out the stars. While Locke goes to get a drink of water, Terra falls into their bed, and pulls a piece of magicite from her pocket. Her eyes drink in their fill of its ridges and grooves, and the contrast of green against red. She presses the glassy material to her forehead and its just cold enough to be a comfort. Magicite looks like it should glow at all times, but right now it’s as silent and shadowy as a grave. 

Terra hears the creaking of the floor, and then feels the mattress shake as Locke collapses into bed next to her. They lay side by side, turned away from one another. 

“You’re looking at magicite, aren’t you?” 

“Yes. It’s my father’s, actually.” 

“I thought so.” Locke inhales sharply through his teeth, and she wonders if he’s also seeing that dingy room in Zozo. He had embraced her, welcomed her back, and pressed a piece of magicite into her hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she thinks he’s apologizing for dozens of things. Some of which he could have never hoped to help. “I insisted you have it first because I thought it would do you good, but-”

“It’s fine. It’s painful, of course.” Every time she thinks of the esper world, it’s as though someone’s stabbed her and then twisted the blade. It’s not a wound that can be bandaged up and forgotten. It’s not a wound that can heal. “That part of my life will _always_ be painful, Locke. But it’s better than not having a memory at all. You’ve always seemed to understand that.” 

She’s starting to drift off, and that makes Terra contemplate reaching up to place her magicite on her bedside table. 

“I do think they’re probably dead.” 

That startles Terra. She rolls onto her back, her body loose from exhaustion, and her brain electrified and alert. 

“Did you find their bodies?” 

“No.” He briefly buries his face in his hands. It’s as if he believes that if he muffles this announcement, he will rewrite the failure itself. “I asked around, of course. The Returners are mostly dead, but no one has made contact with any of our friends. And, well, the ocean is massive, and there were a lot of mass graves in those days. They could be anywhere.” 

_In those days…_

In Mobliz, they placed their dead on biers, folded flowers or arrows into their hands, and let the tide take them away. Duane had had to do that for his father and his older brother. An isolated Locke had been wandering the earth at the same time Mobliz had been shedding itself of its beloved dead. Both situations strike Terra as terrible- as terrible as the gods themselves- and there are sharp pinpricks in her eyes again. She wipes at them with the back of her hand and realizes she’s crying. It’s the first time she’s done so since the slave crown was removed from her head. 

“I think you’re brave for trying.” 

That’s when Locke turns to face her and in the grayish moonlight she can see the emptiness in his eyes. She’s seen this look before; in troops from vanquished armies, and in refugees on the steppe. 

“After I gave up, I went back to Kohligen. I was planning-” The unfinished sentence dangles in the air, but Locke never completes it. “I’d made promises to you and Celes and I thought you were both dead. It was like something out of a story my grandmother would have told me. I made three promises, and I failed three times.”

“Something changed your mind, though?” _And you never failed with me. I'm still here._

“It was Rachel. You know about her?” Terra nods, and thinks he would never have mentioned this without liquor freeing him of his inhibitions. Without the darkness shielding his expressions. Armored in obscurity, the words now tumble out him quickly, slurred around the edges, hoarse from despair. “Rachel was still… around. I thought that the end of the world would have smashed her to pieces. That didn’t happen. At the time it felt like a sign. Still kind of does.” 

“I see.” The magicite is still in Terra’s hand and she clenches it until it almost breaks her skin. “You still want to bring her back.” 

“I have to try, Terra. If Rachel’s lasted through an attack by the Triad there has to be a reason for it. I’ve heard rumors about something on this continent called Phoenix...” 

_Rachel was once just a human to him, and Locke loved her. But he’s also made her into an idea. It’s like she’s become his own god._

Throwing caution to the wind, Terra reaches out to him. She drapes one arm around Locke’s torso and it’s much like the way he supported her on the stairs. He doesn’t cry, exactly, but there is tension in his body. Barely discernible tremors, as if he’s choking back years of misery. She doesn’t know when they fall asleep, but when they do they’re both holding on to one another.

 *****

In the morning, Terra finds herself alone in their bed. Her fingers still curl around her father’s magicite. Locke’s concerns had distracted her so thoroughly that she never thought to put the gem aside. In an experimental mood, she presses her lips to its glassy surface. Kissing has always looked comical to Terra, but over time she’s begun to see its purpose. Sometimes gestures are needed to compensate for the failure of word. When she breathes in, she notices that magicite has a scent. Her father’s is a bit like autumnal wood smoke. 

_I wish I could have met you and mother for real._

There’s no reply, not that Terra has anticipated one. She proceeds to tie back her hair, as she’s done every morning since she regained her freewill. Perhaps it’s habit, perhaps it’s a small measure of control. All Terra knows is that she’s never gone outside with her curls falling down around her shoulders. 

Locke still hasn’t returned, and Terra can only stare out the window for so long. Adults are rushing to their jobs, and teenagers are clearly absconding from school. Sometimes entire families pass by, squabbling or laughing, and Terra watches with curious eyes. In the end she scratches out a note for Locke, and heads out into Albrook on her own. 

She walks and walks, past shops, and temples, and disreputable bars. The city smells like cinnamon and the sea, and Terra is hungry again in record time. 

Terra doesn’t stop until she reaches the outer limits of the city. Great stone walls protect Albrook’s land borders, and no amount of arguing with the guards will earn her the right to leave. Not without _’proper identification.’_

_(Locke might have been able to talk his way out of the city. Or he’d find forged documents.)_

There’s a low cacophony just outside the city, almost as if another village has pressed up against Albrook. The wind carries conversations, tittering laughter, bleating animal and (most disturbingly) moans of pain. 

“What’s that out there?” Terra asks 

“Vector refugees,” the guard says, with the kind of vitriol and disregard usually reserved for rats. 

"Are they hurt?”

“Some of them probably.” 

Sometimes, when she hears that people are in pain, Terra’s hands will itch with a vestigial healing spell. When Cyan had relayed the fate of Doma, she had scratched her palms throughout the conversation. And that had been out of concern for people who were miles away, and irrevocably dead. 

She doesn’t have the same reaction this time. Even though she’s separated from the refugees by a thin veil of stone. Even though there are people she could help. Her magical intuition lies dormant. This omission haunts her like a phantom limb, and she sees no other recourse but to walk away. 

All at once Terra is weary, and she debates the merits of going back to the hotel. Instead she retraces her steps until she’s standing in front of a handsome brick building. There are scorch marks here and there, but the library is otherwise unharmed. 

She makes her way through winding stacks, the gaslights seemingly becoming dimmer the more territory she crosses. Terra finds Locke in a section housing books on arcane magic and lore, and she realizes that she must have been looking for him all this time. 

_Because where else would he be after last night's conversation?_

“Locke.” She keeps her voice library quiet. 

As she steps towards him, she watches his face change. When people have their noise in a book, it takes them a while to return to earth if they are caught unawares. Having recently discovered the merits of reading, Terra understands this. 

Locke puts the tome on the nearest shelf. “I went back to the inn and saw you were gone, and I was worried.” As statements go, it’s probably half honest, half deflection. 

Terra looks him straight in the eye. “I left you a note.” 

“Yeah.” Locke makes a face. “I saw that. And after I did I remembered I left _you_ without saying anything. So I'm one to talk.” 

Terra shakes her head. “Ever since we met, we keep running off from one another. And then we find each other again. Maybe that means something.” 

Locke laughs until, it would seem, he makes the realization she is entirely serious. “Could be.” 

She flips open Locke’s book, and find pages of diagrams and words inscribed in faded ink. “This is about Phoenix.” 

"Yes, it is.”

“When I was in Vector, Gestahl and Kefka talked… _near_ me sometimes.” When she had her slave crown on, those two treated her the same way they might treat a decorative sword. “Emperor Gestahl definitely believed that Phoenix exists. He was looking for immortality, though.” 

An immortal Gestahl.” Locke shudders dramatically. “Now there’s a thought. So your memories are still coming b-” 

Someone shushes them, and it cuts off Locke's question.

Locke is giving her a sidelong glance as though he’s expecting a reprimand for seeking Phoenix. Perhaps he deserves one. But Terra shifts a bit, feels her father’s magicite bump against her hip, and she wishes there was a way to explain this to Locke. She wishes she could convey they share a burning desire to rewrite the past. She can’t absolve him, no more than he can decipher things for her. All they can do is understand one another as best they can, 

_Humans touch all the time._ Like last night she reaches over to him, but this time they hold hands on top of ancient book. The author must have thought magic was long dead, and that the espers were mere allegorical figures. Locke absently brushes calloused fingers over the skin just below her thumb. 

“Terra…” 

_No, don’t change it with words. Don’t describe it._ Emotions are so new, and sometimes she just wants to live in them. Just burrow down into whatever she's feeling and let it take her. 

Then again, maybe that same desire was having an adverse effect on her spells

“My magic is growing weaker."

That certainly catches Locke’s attention. “Do you think Kefka’s stealing it all, or something?” 

“I wonder if Mobliz made me sick, somehow.” Terra bites on her lower lip. It’s dry, despite the city's humidity, and she tastes blood. “It’s been getting worse ever since I landed there. Could I be becoming too human for it?” 

Locke hesitates, his eyes darting back and forth. Terra squeezes his hand. 

“You don’t need to have the answer for me..” 

*****

In the town square, the citizens of Albrook are debating whether to suspend all sea travel. After all, Kefka has attacked their shipyard and maybe they should be taking precautions. 

Terra and Locke stand towards the back of the gathering and listening to arguments for and against this idea. 

“I think it’s a cowardly myself,” an old woman mutters.

She doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular, but Terra feels compelled to question her anyway. “Why do you say that?” The wind is boisterous today, and since leaving the library Terra has had her scarf tied around her hair. 

The woman harrumphs loudly. “The boats and ships are what make our economy run properly. People are stupid if they think Kefka’s Light of Judgment was attacking anything in particular. They’re stupid to think he has a pattern, either. He’s as impartial and emotionless as the gods and acts of nature. We need to think about him the same way we think about, say, the tsunamis.” 

“Oh, yes, I see your point.” Terra turns her head to meet Locke’s gaze. He shrugs, and then follows her as she walks away. 

The streets are largely deserted, and damp. It must have rained while they were inside. Terra’s shoes squeak as they head along.

“Did that bother you?" Locke asks, speeding to catch up to her pace. “Just because you have magic doesn’t mean you’re cruel or distant like Kefka.”

“Some people say Kefka got that way _because_ of the magic infusion.” 

They had howled across the landscape, salting the earth, and setting houses ablaze. But they had gone on their rampage with cool, calculated precision. Even Yura, who had been filled to the brim with revolutionary fervor, had had a voice as still as a tranquil lake. 

“You’re not like that, Terra." 

Terra steps up on the ledge of a fountain, and watches the water arch up and then fall into the basin. Terra has seen human children throw coins into these sorts of things, and for one reckless moment she pictures doing the same with a piece of magicite. Just letting it sink down and join nature.

She looks down at Locke, and he holds out a hand as if to help her down. She ignores the gesture, as the wind blows strands of hair across her face. “I have such strange emotions about Mobliz. And about my friends when I think they might be dead. And about you. Do you have any idea what this all means?” 

Locke’s smile is as affectionate as his eyes are sad. “I think I’ll leave that to you figure out.” He drops his arm to his side. 

Terra hops down. “You have an idea though?” 

“I do, but you survived the Veldt by yourself…” He trails off, as if pondering the implications of this. “I have faith you can figure this one out too.”

There’s a strange warmth in her ribcage, and she can grins back at him. She places her hands on his arms- just below his elbows- and wishes she could transfer thoughts this way. _If you trust in my ability to take care of myself, I hope that means you can trust other women the same way. I want you to heal._

Loud cheering erupts from the village square, and a burst of wind nearly tears the scarf from Terra’s head. She clutches on to it, as she and Locke sprint to hear the news; the city elders will only suspend travel for a week. After that point, ships can go to and from Albrook. 

Terra actually jumps up and down, and claps a little bit. It’s something she saw Katarin do when a handful of sprouts had begun poking up out of the ground. It invokes a similar emotion in Terra to know that Kefka cannot put a stranglehold on this place. Cannot completely control her, even from afar.

“I didn’t realize I was worried they would vote otherwise until I heard the verdict.” Birds squawk overheard, and Terra prays for the pigeon carrying a message to Katarin. “It would not have been fun hauling bags of seeds across the Veldt.” She makes a face. "Or swimming to it, actually." 

*****

During the week of Albrook’s isolation, Locke and Terra must find ways to bide their time. She discovers that this occasion is almost a respite. Kefka has gutted the major powers, Empire and the Returners alike. Terra and Locke are now ruled by smaller- but equally important- responsibilities. After a lifetime spent as a puppet to governments, it’s galvanizing for Terra to discover that she has the same goals as every human she walks past in the streets of Albrook. She and Locke are simply trying to make it through the day, while helping others achieve the same.

One night, while lying next to Locke, Terra comes to a realization.

_There really is honor in surviving. Every day is important._

She wants to shake Locke awake and fill his ear with her breakthrough. Upon closer inspection, she doesn’t want to disturb one of his rare moments of rest. 

After all, they have been anything but idle. Terra negotiates with a ship captain adventurous enough to take her to a town though to be destroyed and (she hopes) compassionate enough not to cause trouble once he drops her there. 

Locke and Terra develop a daily schedule, as well. They often wake at the same time, break their fast together, and spend the morning exploring the city. It’s as if Locke is allergic to more than several hours of contentment, however. When he turns jittery and forlorn, Terra all but drags him to the library. Reading seems to diminish his disquiet, and Terra is beginning to trust to the healing quality of stories. 

She likes these moments just as much as their marketplace adventures. Locke and Terra invariably sit together at a desk, leaning close to one another in order to hear every whisper. In the study area, the gaslights have a golden glow, and Locke looks different thus illuminated. She finds herself looking at him more often than any manuscript. (If Locke notices, he doesn’t comment.) 

“I’m reading up on theories about espers,” Locke says, on one of the earlier days. 

“Oh? What does this one say?” 

“I’ve been trying to figure out why your magic might be… changing.” He places a finger below a paragraph. “Right here, the author is saying that magic is a force from the gods. Since magic is so crucial to the espers’ existence, it’s helpful to think of them as a personification of the elements. With the resulting effect on their emotions and view of the world.” He smiles as if to say _see? some of the past year's crash course in magic has stuck._

“Hmmm.” Terra idly flips through the pages in the book sitting before her. Her father and his people had had a singularity of purpose, and a cold acceptance of what must be done. Whether it was revenge, love, or sacrifice, they took to their duties with the calm determination of an avalanche. 

Something similar happens within Terra whenever she transforms. Each time, she feels a peculiar kinship with the elements, and she can practically feel the gods breathing down her neck. When she looks at her human friends, it’s as though she sees them from afar, can see them as one small part of whole. Everything they will do has been done before, and one day their bones will be ground into earth. Their individuality fades into the implacability of nature.

“This author may have a point,” Terra muses, feeling hellow. “Do you think living among non-magical humans is making me lose touch with my esper side?” 

“Could be. Or maybe you’re just thinking more like a human, and that’s enough to do it.” 

Terra watches dust motes dance in the air. “You know, people have always wanted me for my magic and I used to want to cut it out of me. Now that I might get my wish, I find myself thinking about how this is the one thing that ties me to my father.” 

There are no decent answers to this sort of quandary. All Terra knows is that it’s nice to ruminate on this in the company of Locke; her first friend, and fellow hoarder of tragedies. 

“Have you been reading up on Phoenix?” 

Locke looks startled at this shift in conversation, but he obliges her question. “Yeah, there’s a mountain north of Tzen where it might be.” 

Terra blinks at him. “After the week is up, isn’t the government arranging for people to go to Tzen if they want to?” 

Locke bites his lip. “Yes, but-“ 

“You should go.” 

Silence.

“I’m also leaving in a week, remember? You should go.” 

*****

When Locke brings back a radio to their hotel room, they incorporate into their afternoon activities. They turn it on and listen to announcements about the dead. Every day, more corpses are identified, and their names broadcast on the air to give their families and friends peace. 

One day, while Locke and Terra are scrutinizing legends of the Phoenix Cave, the radio crackles to laugh and a voice announces that they will share some names of the missing. Terra drops her pen when they begin to list every single one of her friends from the time before.

She then stares up at Locke. 

“I sent in a letter,” he sighs, sounding much older than he should.

 

On their final night in Albrook they go to a bar, and this time Terra dances. She just sets down her drink, and walks to the floor. She whirls without any especial skill, but she’s always been graceful. She’s determined to wring every lost drop out of this experience, soaking in all the playfulness denied her in her teenage years. 

“Having fun?” Locke asks, as she returns to their table for water. 

“Oh, yes.” She sits down. “Dancing was rarely allowed in Vector.” 

“I think I remember hearing that. Most music was outlawed, too? What a way to live.”

“The generals got to dress in bright clothes, but that was the extent of fun in Vector. Emperor Gestahl wanted to hoard power, but he rarely let his people enjoy belonging to the richest city in the world. I wonder if _he_ ever enjoyed anything.” Terra taps her fingers against the table, remembering the city of her childhood. It had been all reds and browns, metal and dead things. “Celes once got reprimanded for playing cards with her soldiers. Apparently that was being frivolous.”

Locke nearly chokes as he takes a sip of beer. “Really? She must have loved that.” 

“She was very stoic about it.” If she is breathless now, it comes from missing Celes.

Locke and Terra share the kind of smile one only sees at funerals, and Terra thinks that, oh, it’s going to hurt if it’s ever confirmed her comrades are all dead. 

“Since I can’t toast to the empire’s destruction, we might as well toast to our friends’ spirits,” Locke says. 

Terra clinks her glass against his, and the ringing sound makes her think of Relm’s laughter. 

Afterwards, because words cost too much, she gets up and dances some more. Locke soon joins her. 

*****

When the week tapers to a close, Locke is the first one scheduled to leave. Terra’s ship sails in the evening, while Locke must depart at the government’s scheduled time or risk being stuck here for another month. Terra sits in a chair, trying to maintain esper-calm, esper-distant. Therefore, when he hauls his backpack over one arm, she doesn’t even blink. 

“This is goodbye, I guess,” he says, his voice thin with eagerness and regret. "For now?"

“Good luck,” Terra says kindly. “You’re always welcome to visit Mobliz.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

They hug goodbye, but it has no more effect on Terra than a gentle breeze. Locke walks out the door with a puzzled glance over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

Terra sits, and listens. She hears the clamor of Albrook’s crowds drifting in from her open window. It’s one sound, but it’s comprised of dozens of people. Dozens of hopes, fears, loves, and hates, all jumbled together into a tiny corner of humanity. No matter how hard she tries to focus on the whole, she finds herself picking out individual voices. They call out to her, and there’s a kind of magic in being alive, isn’t there?

Terra bolts from her chair with as much alacrity as one of the Empire’s cannons. She bounds down the hotels stairs, and gallops out of the lobby, flying past gaping patrons. She runs and runs and _runs_ through the streets, dodging pedestrians and chocobos. She burning from within, and she’s laughing with joy. 

“Locke,” she gasps, when she sees him. 

He turns to face her- and this is the second time they’ve done this, but it feels so different this time- and he actually drops his backpack to the ground.

She slows her run to a walk and then pulls him into a strong embrace. _Humans like to touch_ and this kind of moment is why. Locke is solid in her arms, he smells like his soap from the hotel, and he holds her with infinite compassion.

“What’s all this about?” He asks into her ear.

“I’m not sure,” she confesses, “but you’re important to me and I had to let you know.” 

Locke strengthens his grip as if to say _you’re important to me too_. But they have to let each other go for now. It’s enough that Terra can choose to go, and that Locke has chosen to trust her strength. She kisses him on the cheek. It’s too far from the temple to be platonic, and too far from the lips to be romantic and it seems the perfect acknowledgement of his role in her life.

_I don’t know what love is, but surely you must be worthy of it._

*****

Afterwards, she’s far too light on her feet to go back to the hotel. Terra decides to make a stop at the rookery, and is rewarded with the discovery that a letter is waiting for her. 

It’s a small envelope, adorned with Katarin’s neat handwriting. 

_There's a home waiting for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my friends T. and H. for helping me out with this fic. 
> 
> T. is just as much a fan of FFVI as I am, and talked with me a lot about Terra and Locke characterization and generally provided moral support. H., meanwhile, was playing the game for the first time ever while writing it and would livestream it for the three of us. It was really inspiring to see the canon through a fresh pair of eyes, and it was generally one of the things reminding me why I love FFVI as much as I do.
> 
> Okay, that's it! And I hope you have a good holiday season, Lirillith. :)


End file.
